KING   Give me the management of fifty acres and ploughing and sowing and harvest, and I could do it and make me a handsome profit into the bargain.

WILLIS   I said I have a farm, Your Majesty.
The King stops, looks at him, then starts talking again.

GREVILLE   This gentleman, sir, has made the illness under which Your Majesty labours his special study.

KING   A mad-doctor, is it? I am not mad, just nervous.

WILLIS   I shall endeavour to alleviate some of the inconveniences from which Your Majesty suffers.

KING   Inconveniences? Insults. Assaults. And salts beside rubbed into these wounds. Look.
He tries to tear off the bandages. Willis examines the open wounds.
By your dress, sir, and general demeanour, I would say you were a minister of God.

WILLIS   That is true, Your Majesty. I was once in the service of the Church. Now I practise medicine.

KING   Well, I am sorry for it. You have quitted a profession I have always loved, and embraced one I most heartily detest.

WILLIS   Our Saviour went about healing the sick.

KING   Yes, but he had not £700 a year for it.
Greville laughs; the pages laugh; Willis is unamused.
Well, it’s not bad for a madman.

WILLIS   I have a hospital in Lincolnshire.

KING   Lincolnshire, yes, I know Lincolnshire. Fine sheep there.
Admirable sheep. Pigs, too. But I know of no hospitals.

WILLIS   My patients work, sir. They till the soil, and in so doing they acquire a better conceit of themselves.

KING   Well, I am King of England. A man can have no better conceit of himself than that.
Willis takes hold of the King’s shoulder. The King starts at the indignity and Greville makes an involuntary movement of protest. Willis is not deterred and deliberately looks the King in the eye.
Do you look at me, sir?

WILLIS   I do, sir.

KING   I have you in my eye.

WILLIS   No. I have you in mine.

KING   You are bold, sir, but by God I am bolder.
He attacks Willis as the pages rush forward to pull him back. Willis continues to look the King in the eye.
Do not look at me. I am not one of your farmers.

WILLIS   You must behave, or endeavour to do so.

KING   (still fighting) Must, must. Whose must is this? Your must or my must? Get away from me, you scabby bum-sucker.
Lincolnshire lickfingers.

WILLIS   Clean your tongue, sir. Clean your tongue.

KING   I will not. I will be a guest in the graveyard first.

WILLIS   Very well. If Your Majesty will not behave, you must be restrained.
He opens the door to the anteroom, where his attendants wait: brutal, unsmiling figures stood around a large wooden chair fitted with straps and a headrest. The King falls silent looking at it.